


Wicked Crush

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Burglary, Drug Withdrawal, First Time, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Suicide Attempt, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:05:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Josh robs houses on the side and accidentally steals a few pill bottles, vials of testosterone, and a pair of tweezers from Tyler. Josh swears he didn't know it was Tyler's house when he broke in. Please believe him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Crush

No one is going to believe him. He can press his palm to a Bible and swear a holy vow, and still no one will believe him. Raise his right hand, please repeat the following words, and there will only be disbelief going through their heads. He thinks he might vomit.

He wishes he could say this started out as a prank that slowly got out of hand, but that's a lie. No one goes up to someone and says, "Hey, thanks for daring me to break into that chick's house that one time. I fucking love doing it now." But, honestly, that's what happened. A friend dared him to crash into a girl's place and take whatever he could get his hands on, and when he came back with a bottle of Adderall and some makeup, the rest… just happened. The Adderall didn't amount to anything because they used that for themselves, and Josh kept the makeup for himself, _but_ his friend would text him to ask if he was free a weekend here and a weekend there, and obviously he wondered why, but ultimately it came down to "No one can go into these houses like you, Josh."

So, to say this started off as a prank that slowly got out of hand wouldn't entirely be telling the truth. He loves doing this, and saying anything else would be a lie, and lying… is bad. Lying's bad. He can't lie because it's bad.

"I'm going to die," he whispers.

With all the _bad things_ in the world, he thinks he might be in the middle ground—comfortably, somehow. He doesn't kill people, will never kill people. He's too good to do that sort of bad thing. No, his area of expertise is stealing—which he is doing now, and is doing quite horribly. He's normally very good: in and out in under an hour with no detection or realization until months have passed and marriages have already fallen apart—sometimes he does go out and splurge and steal everything he can fit into his friend's van—so really, he's actually helping more than harming. Or that's what he tells himself, as he's cowering underneath the kitchen table, trying to slow his breathing and not cry. Crying would be less than ideal. Crying would give away his location, not like the knocked-over dining chair already did that. He covers his mouth with both of his hands, trying to muffle everything at once. He feels like exploding. He can't explode. Exploding would give away his location.

He doesn't know why he chose this… line of profession when he has terrible anxiety. It even gets to the point of being unable to breathe and possibly vomiting. He's already had to swallow a bit of that. So, he's trying to calm himself down. He can do this. He's not going to get caught.

He's never been caught. And now he's going to because the guy woke up for some unknown reason, and here he is, crouching under the kitchen table, feeling a lot like the Grinch when Cindy Lou Who caught him. Can he get away from this if he tells the guy to get some water and go back to bed? He'll return the Christmas tree in the morning… but it isn't Christmas, so there's no tree, and he's royally fucked.

"I can hear you," the guy says, loudly, and then more quietly, "I think."

The guy's name is Tyler. Tyler is sweet. He always orders grilled cheeses and milkshakes no matter the time of day. His hair is soft, his smile is bright, and his laughter is unforgettable. Tyler is also friends with Josh—about the level of friendship where they don't exactly know the extent of their friendship, like can they spend all their time together or would that be weird? They share lingering looks from across the diner and send each other funny texts.

Okay, Tyler has a _wicked crush_ on Josh, and Josh is blind to not have seen it until now. Now being while he's cowering under Tyler's kitchen table. This is an odd time to realize an undying love for another person, but there's no time like the present.

Tyler's feet appear in his line of vision, an aluminum baseball bat hanging by his side. Josh's eyes widen.

He didn't expect his night to turn out like this. He meant to find the bathroom and stuff pill bottles and whatever else he could find in his bag, and he did that. _He did that_. And then, he heard the creak of a door opening, feet perching at the top of the stairs, and a nervous, high voice saying, "Excuse me? Could you please leave?"

And now Josh is under the table. Because he's an idiot. And because he panicked. But mostly because he's an idiot. His face is covered by a black ski mask, so he's not that worried about getting recognized. But he _is_ worried about getting caught. And Tyler has a _fucking bat_.

He's going to die.

Tyler walks, nudges the chair on the floor. His toes curl. "Hello?" Tyler calls, and it's now or never, right?

Josh says, "Hi," and he scrambles out from under the table, Tyler shouting and jumping and—

The baseball bat slams into the wall, right next to Josh's head. He ducks. He's so glad he ducks.

"Get out," Tyler says, and he swings again. Josh runs. "Get out, get out, get out!"

Josh runs and runs and runs.

*

His bag is heavy, full from multiple visits. Tonight, he went to every house on a street—something he rarely does, but he saw an opportunity and took it. Typically he likes to shake things up and go from one side of town to the other to make the authorities believe two different people are perpetuating these burglaries.

It isn't just pills in his bag. There is jewelry, old silverware, electronics. Josh never handles the exchanges. He drops the goods off at a friend's house, and Josh gets his cut by the end of the month. No complaints, really.

He rubs the labels on the bottles, reading the prescription. He doesn't care what drugs a person takes. Josh has a fair share of problems, too, so he understands and even admires the ones who go seek help. That's partly why Josh likes doing this. He can pass these pills to some kid who has bad parents or not enough money to get the help they need. Or he could be aiding some pillhead. You win some, you lose some.

From Tyler's house, though, Josh is expecting expired pain medication, maybe something to help sleep. He grabbed so many bottles and even a pair of tweezers and dumped them into his bag without thinking, without even thinking about thinking. Josh expects over-the-counter pain medicine, allergy tablets, maybe something to treat a cold—not fucking antidepressants, and sure as hell not antipsychotics.

Josh lies on his bed, shaking, still finding it hard to breathe after escaping death. The black mask lays forgotten on the carpet.

He has to sell these, has to, he has to. But in all good conscience, he can't. He rattles the bottle, hearing the pills, hearing the money. He could help someone who needs this, but in a way, he's doing more harm than good. There's Tyler, and there're so many bottles. He doesn't even have any refills. Josh frowns.

There's more, too. Along with the pills, Josh has syringes, needles, vials of shit. Tyler might be sick, ill, _whatever_ , but that sort of drug would need to be stored in the fridge, yeah? Josh is ignorant when it comes to things like this, despite handling all kinds of contraband for a few months now. He chews on the inside of his cheek and rubs his thumb into the labels here, the vials small, some full, others half-empty. They say testosterone. He frowns again.

He decides to keep Tyler's items and give what's remaining to his friend to sell. Josh won't do anything with them. He waits for Tyler to make the first move.

*

Everything seems to be okay the first day. Josh stops at his friend's, gives them the bag, and then he's off to work. In a way, he has two jobs, but one is secret—and illegal. His other job is where he met Tyler, small and curled into a ball in the last booth at the diner. He was drenched from the rain, his hood still pulled over his hair, but his smile was warm, and his eyes brightened when he saw Josh. "Hey," he said, his arms still looped around his legs. "Crazy weather we're having."

"Sure." Josh has the pleasure of staying inside most days, only stepping out on his breaks to steal a puff from a cigarette or something a tad stronger. Though now, Josh spends his breaks with Tyler, sitting across from him and probably scaring away other customers with their constant laughter.

Tyler removed his legs from the seat and began to swing them under the table. "You the waiter?"

Josh waved his notepad and pen. "Uh-huh."

"Too hot to be a waiter." Tyler smiled. "Gimme a grilled cheese and a milkshake. Whichever flavor you want. I don't care."

After that, Tyler began to visit every day. He sat in the same booth, legs swinging, his face lighting up whenever Josh made his way over to the table with either his notepad or the food. Tyler always left a generous tip. A week later he left twenty bucks and his number, and Josh didn't hesitate to text him that night. Was it too fast? Josh felt he knew Tyler better than anybody in the entire world, but he couldn't tell Tyler that. Josh found it easier to hide his feelings in memes and cat pictures.

Today, Josh thinks Tyler might act different, might look different. He doesn't know how; it's reasonable to think of Tyler having bags under his eyes from loss of sleep, but Josh is anticipating Tyler growing a third arm or something, just to point at him with and accuse him of breaking into his house and stealing shit. Tyler shouldn't know it was him. Despite this, Josh finds himself going to the back every time the bell above the door chimes. He grows pale, and his stomach turns inside out.

"Hey, he's here," a nudge to Josh's side says, and now he has no choice other than to confront Tyler. Everyone here knows Tyler and how much of a _wicked crush_ he has on Josh, except Josh. Well, Josh knows now. He figured it out while crouching beneath a kitchen table and admiring the way Tyler's toes curled. Josh chooses to ignore the baseball bat.

Tyler most certainly does not have a third arm. He looks much the same, a tad sleepier, but that's normal with what happened last night. Josh tells himself he needs to act concerned, surprised, worried—act like he doesn't know what Tyler's talking about. That's always good; ignorance is bliss. But if he goes overboard, it might be suspicious. Josh has exactly four seconds before he's in front of Tyler to make up his damn mind. He's a nervous wreck. He might vomit.

Josh doesn't vomit. He laughs and says, "Wow, you look like shit," because that's casual and totally not rude at all.

"Do I?" Tyler drags a hand down his face. "I didn't sleep well."

Josh almost laughs again, but he stops himself. Composure, composure. Josh frowns. He sits down opposite Tyler, becomes the curious friend. "You could have texted me. I would have run straight to your house. We could have watched movies. Pigged out on ice cream." What if Tyler had texted him? God, Josh needs to double check his phone is on silent before he goes on these adventures.

Tyler shrugs, a lazy shake of his shoulders. "I didn't want to bother you. I thought…" He sighs. "Someone broke into my house last night."

"Holy shit, no way?"

"Yes way." Tyler puts his hands on the table, tapping the top with a fingertip. "And if that wasn't scary enough, after I called the cops, they told me all of the other houses on the street had been broken into, as well! It was… Man, I don't know." Tyler runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm, like, so terrified to go to sleep now."

Josh reaches out, touching Tyler's wrist, which flops unceremoniously back to the table. Josh rubs his thumb into the tattoos there. "Did this person take anything? Do the police know who did it?"

Tyler shakes his head. "No idea. It's just…" He slowly breathes out. "They took, uh"—Tyler shakes his head again, eyes closing—"nothing important. Just some… like, old medicine… like, amoxicillin. You know, that pink stuff?"

"Yeah, I know that pink stuff."

"Yeah, they took that." Tyler stares at Josh. "And, like, a pair of tweezers."

Josh laughs. "Seriously?"

Tyler nods, lips spreading to smile his first smile since sitting. "Seriously." He presses his lips together, nervous again, timid. "Can I have that grilled cheese and milkshake now?"

Josh does finger guns at Tyler. "Coming right up."

*

"You going to be okay, dude?" Josh asks near the end of his break, Tyler slurping the last of his strawberry milkshake. Tyler looks up at him through his eyelashes, his brow furrowed. Josh waves his hand. "Do you want me to come over? Or you can come over. Or whatever." He clears his throat. "Just want you to… feel safe."

"I'll be fine." Tyler smiles, and Josh honestly believes him.

*

Tyler seems fine the second day after _the incident_ , too. And he's even better the third day. He grins at Josh, laughs at his jokes, even responds to his texts in ample time. Josh doesn't lose sleep, like he did that first night. He thinks they might have been medicine Tyler doesn't take anymore. Maybe he had weaned himself from them, and is now… better…? To be fair, Josh didn't know Tyler before he was treated with these prescriptions—most likely—so to base any behavior he does now wouldn't be right. If Tyler felt the need to shield Josh from his medications, then that's on him. Josh shouldn't pressure him. There's still that stigma surrounding mental illness and the ways people go to combat it. Tyler is an adult, and he can make his own decisions. Like Josh. Josh is an adult, and he can make his own decisions.

Like now. He's currently slipping into a house through a window, the screen cut out and the lock broken. His bag is over his shoulder, empty. The night is young, and Josh has entered into a room with two laptops and several old vinyl records. His fingers twitch, and he actually gets a damn adrenaline rush.

The third house he enters doesn't have much of anything of value on the surface, but Josh finds it in the bathroom, as he usually does. This house has top-of-the-line painkillers and some antidepressants. Seeing a bottle like Tyler's doesn't bother Josh that much. He doesn't know these people. Besides, the contents of their medicine cabinet tell Josh he'll be helping their dependency by doing this.

Josh plans to hit a fourth house, but it's nearing three a.m.—a common time for people to rise and take a late-night piss. His phone tells him he has four missed texts and one missed call; all of them are from Tyler.

 _hey_  
_hi_  
_i had a nightmare and i really need someone to talk to  
_ _josh are you up_

Grateful for not having read receipts on, Josh pockets his phone and goes home. He can't talk to Tyler. He's busy.

In the morning, Josh texts Tyler back, says he only just woke up, when he's been up for hours now. It's ten o'clock, a toothbrush hanging from his mouth, as he gets ready for work. There are circles under his eyes and a cowlick that refuses to leave. Three hours of sleep fuel him, which is most definitely bad, but he's run on worse.

_don't sweat it. i shouldn't have even texted you that late anyway_

_No, shut up man, you can talk to me anytime. I was just asleep is all and forgot to take my phone off silent when I got off work_

_oh that makes sense_

Josh fiddles with the cowlick some more, then smashes it down with a beanie. Today's going to be a good day.

*

Tyler comes in at the end of Josh's shift. To say he's looking a little worse for wear would be an understatement. Tyler is a ghost, drifting in with heavy clothes and lost eyes. He wanders by the exit, the bell above him almost like a haunt, following until he's next to Josh, waiting patiently, watching Josh scribble down a man's order. Josh jumps a bit once he notices Tyler, immediately smiling right after. "Hey there," he says, wrapping his arm around Tyler's shoulders, giving him a squeeze. "Missed you."

Tyler says nothing. Josh goes behind the counter, handing the order to the cook. Tyler has followed him even behind the counter, hovering, quiet. Josh frowns, goes to the back, and Tyler follows him again. No one questions it. They know who Tyler is, and they know how he feels about Josh. They turn a blind eye. "Is everything a-okay?" Josh asks, pulling the ties from his apron and hanging it on a hook. "Thought I needed to text you to see if you were coming today or something."

"Oh, so _now_ you'd text me."

Josh blinks. "What?"

Tyler shakes his head.

Josh takes Tyler outside, leaving through the staff's door after clocking out. "Did you want to… hang out?"

"Spend the night with me," Tyler says. "I don't feel safe."

So, Josh does. It's kind of his fault anyway.

*

Josh's definition of "spend the night with me" is _definitely_ _not_ Tyler's definition of it. And that's cool. That's fine. Josh is an idiot to assume Tyler would want _that_ when he's acting the way he is. He isn't… all the way there. They sit on the couch and watch mindless reality shows, Tyler on one end, and Josh on the other, with a cushion between them. Tyler is in a ball, arms around his legs, his knees serving as a pillow for his head. Josh stares at him and counts the number of times he blinks during a commercial break. Josh counts three times.

He excuses himself to the bathroom, then pauses, backtracks. "Where is your bathroom?"

"Down the hall, first door on the left."

Josh pisses, and because he's an idiot, he goes through Tyler's medicine cabinet. It's bare, save for a tube of toothpaste, floss, and a box of Band-Aids. There are no bottles, no syringes, no fucking vials. Josh studies the emptiness and remembers how to properly breathe. He returns to the couch, sitting closer to Tyler. It's a subtle move. Tyler doesn't notice.

They don't do much that night. Tyler sits. Josh sits. Then, they go to bed. Tyler doesn't go up the stairs, though; he goes down the hall and turns to the second door on the left. Josh would have thought his room was upstairs, where he had stood and called for Josh to leave. This room is lived-in, the bed unmade and dirty clothes on the floor. Josh bites his lip. "I can… sleep on the couch."

Tyler shakes his head. "No. They might get you out there."

Josh had managed to walk through the front door when he ransacked the place, so he doesn't blame Tyler for avoiding the living room at nighttime. It sucks, though. Tyler is tense, even refusing to take off his layers as he crawls into bed. Josh did this to him—the paranoia, the fright. Josh loses his jeans and gets under the covers, feeling naked regardless of his clothed body. Tyler is going to get a heatstroke during the middle of the night, and yet Josh still scoots closer, opening his arms for Tyler, welcoming Tyler to his chest.

Their legs tangle together. Josh doesn't mind the friction of bare skin against clothing; Tyler is wearing leggings, or something close to it. His calf muscles are small, his ankles thin. Josh's hands wander, cupping a hip, drifting lower. Tyler stiffens, and Josh's hands go above the belt. "Sorry."

Eyes shut, Tyler shakes his head. "I… I _can't_."

"That's okay."

They sleep.

*

Tyler is worse in the morning. He's bitter, kicking and punching Josh as soon as he wakes. He's in the middle of a nightmare, coming to with danger in his veins and wary in his eyes. Josh stands from the bed, nursing a bleeding lip. Tyler is breathing, heavy, his skin flushed. He looks so sick. "Sorry," Tyler says. "I thought you were…" He doesn't continue. He closes his eyes.

Josh almost jokes, almost tells Tyler the truth—he is the guy in Tyler's nightmares, the one who's after him. But if he tells Tyler that, Tyler would yell at him. Hell, he might not even believe him. Which would be better?

"Here," Tyler says, and gets up from the bed. He sheds his hoodie, a t-shirt stuck to his skin beneath. It's Josh's turn to follow Tyler. They go into the bathroom, Josh leaned against the sink while Tyler wets a washcloth and dabs away the blood. The scratch is small, nothing to fret over. It's barely noticeable. Tyler smiles. "Too bad I don't have a lollipop for you to suck on."

God, these are just set up for Josh. He narrows his eyes, tilting his head. Tyler does it right back, mischief clouding his expression. "Oh, I'm sure you have _something_ for me to suck on," Josh says, and Tyler blinks, and his face falls, and Josh frowns, and he says, "Shit, oh, my God, ignore what I said," and Tyler genuinely looks like he might fall over and dive into an early grave, but he's leaning in and giving Josh's puffy bottom lip a kiss instead. It's nothing to write home about, and yet it's _everything_ to write home about. It's gentle, it's sweet, light suction, no teeth, only a swipe of tongue, and by the end, Josh's lip is still holding up. Tyler still looks bad, like there are a million things preoccupying that head of his, but he manages to smile. And Josh smiles back.

*

It goes downhill from there.

Tyler _really_ needs to stop texting him while he's working. And by working, Josh means… well, _whatever_.

His friend is with him tonight, and they're lifting a flat screen TV from a house whose family is on vacation. Since they're by themselves, and this is their only stop tonight, Josh didn't bother silencing his phone. Now he wishes he had. After the fifth text and the second missed call, Josh's friend pushes him into a bedroom with a duffel bag and tells him to "handle it". With his phone between shoulder and ear, Josh begins digging through bedroom drawers and dropping jewelry and brand-name clothing into the bag. "Tyler, what is it? Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"No," Tyler says. "Why haven't you been answering my messages?"

"I was sleeping." Josh holds a pair of pearl earrings up to his ears before dropping them into the bag with a disapproving shake of his head.

"You're always fucking sleeping."

"Uh, because it's, like, four in the morning."

"It's actually three thirty."

"Whatever. What's going on? Nightmare again?"

Tyler sounds like he's crying on the other line. "I feel like they're going to come back and kill me."

"No one's going to kill you, Tyler." Josh studies a box of condoms kept in a bedside table. He debates on taking it for his own personal use, but then discovers it's for those with latex allergies, so he puts it back. He has to leave something for the poor fuckers. "Why do you think they're going to kill you? I never heard of these burglars killing anyone."

"There were whispers at first, but now they're loud, and there have been more thefts, Josh. It's bound to happen. It's going to be me. I'm going to be killed."

"Shut up. You're going to be fine." Josh's friend pops in the doorway. Josh shrugs and shoos them away. "Look, Tyler, I'm really tired. I'll call you as soon as I wake up, okay?"

Tyler's voice is muffled, almost as if he's screaming into a pillow. Josh passes his bag off to his friend. They head into the bathroom next, rattling pill bottles. Josh hears it. He can hear the money. He can hear the guilt pounding out his eardrums. Tyler says, "Josh, I need to tell you something, but you're tired, so I'm not going to tell you."

"No, Tyler. Tyler, I'm here. Tell me."

"They didn't just… They didn't take amoxicillin. I haven't taken that stuff since I was a kid."

Josh sits on the floor. The carpet feels expensive. "So, what? They just took the tweezers? What a shit thief."

Tyler laughs, tries to, at least. It comes out wrong. Josh winces. Tyler sniffs. "They, they… shit, Josh, I… They took some… _pills_."

Josh wonders how he should play this off. He wants Tyler to say it, wants him to say what kind of pills, and even the way Tyler says "pills" hints that they're _bad_ in some manner. Josh checks under the bed, pulling out a box and going through it—family pictures. He looks at some. "I mean, I heard some painkillers are valuable. Or something."

"No, Josh. I mean, yeah, I heard that, too, but… these weren't painkillers."

The family has three daughters. Every picture seems to be them at the beach. Maybe that's where they're at now. "What were they, then?" Josh asks. Say it, Tyler.

"Oh, you know… nothing important."

"Why are you acting like this if they weren't important?"

Tyler squeaks. Oh, yeah, definitely crying. "I don't want you to think of me as some kind of… of… I don't want you to look at me any different, Josh."

"Never, Tyler." Josh shoves the box back under the bed. He finds someone's vibrator next. It doesn't work. The batteries are dead.

"I'm, I'm—no, I… I take antidepressants and… some antipsychotics. They're… I'm fine, okay? I only take them when I need to, and I like having them in the house as a type of comfort, you know? And they're gone, and I can't get a refill on them because I tried to kill myself once, and so they're not allowed to give me any refills until the prescription is supposed to run out, and those were new bottles, and I can't get any refills, and I keep shaking, and I'm crying, and Josh, Josh… Josh, I'm really… I don't know."

There it is. Josh stands, straightening out his shirt. "I can come over. Do you need me to come over?"

Hushed, in between sobs, Tyler says, "Would you, please?"

So now, Josh and his friend are hurrying up. "Who was that?" they ask. "Some girl?"

Josh shakes his head. "A boy."

The goods are dropped off at the friend's house to be sold at a later date, and Josh is dropped off at his house. He pulls off the mask, changes into pajamas, and gets into his car, driving to Tyler's. He ruffles his hair, rubs his eyes to make it look like he's only just woken, and Tyler is none the wiser as he opens the door. Josh takes Tyler into his arms, crumbling, crying, and Josh holds him, and they sit on the sofa, and they sleep on the sofa, and Tyler doesn't have any more nightmares.

Not once does Tyler mention the vials of testosterone.

*

Tyler sucks Josh's cock that morning.

Neither of them plans for it to happen, but once it's happening, no one stops it.

During the night, Tyler rolls onto the floor, his torso and arms and head on the carpeting, his legs stuffed under Josh. It's awkward, considering how twisted Tyler's body looks, but he seems comfortable, waking soundly and stretching and yawning like a kitten. Josh smiles at the sight, raising his hips for a moment, to allow Tyler to free his legs, and then Tyler is sitting up and crawling over to him, and Josh is spreading his legs, and now Tyler has his cock down his throat.

Tyler swallows what he can, but it mostly lands right back onto Josh's cock, which Tyler laps up. Only polite. He's smiling—blushing, too. Josh is warm, and he wants Tyler stretched out and mewling because of him. But Tyler is sitting on the ground, lips red, eyes distant, and he says, "I think you should go, Josh."

Josh goes without argument.

*

Tyler doesn't come to the diner. He doesn't even text Josh.

*

Josh needs to do something.

*

When his friend asks him to go to so-and-so house tonight, Josh tells them no—the first he's ever done so. "I need to set something right," he says, and as cryptic and dramatic that sounds, his friend laughs and gives him leave to do just that.

It's two in the morning. Josh is wearing a balaclava, and his bag contains pill bottles and vials and syringes and needles. This is the exact opposite of the intended job description. A burglar _returning_ their stolen goods? Say it ain't so!

Josh doesn't go through the front door. Tyler would be expecting that, or would he be expecting that to be the last place the thief would re-enter?

Josh goes through the front door.

Tyler isn't here. There's music playing somewhere in the house—upstairs. It's a piano, soft at first, then gradually getting louder. Hands smash down the keys, slapping them, violent, harsh. At least Josh knows where Tyler is, and what he must have been doing the first night Josh spent here.

He finds the bathroom quickly and sticks a flashlight in his mouth as he unzips his bag and begins placing the bottles back into the cabinet. The placement from before is shaky, but that doesn't matter. They're back—even the fucking tweezers—and that's really all Josh can do at this point. He's going to go home, sleep, and hope Tyler comes to the diner today. Tyler will smile at him, and they're going to laugh, and Josh thinks he might take Tyler on a date to the movies. It'll be a shitty romance film, and it'll make both of them cry. Josh needs a good cry. He turns off the flashlight, drops it into the bag.

Yes, that's what he's going to do. Home, sleep, Tyler, movies. There will be more thrown in, maybe some kissing, some touching, maybe even more than that. That's for later, though. For now, Josh needs to leave, needs to tiptoe into the living room and slip through the front door and dash down the street to his car. He might even hum the song Tyler is playing upstairs—if he remembers it. Josh tries to listen for it, wanting to remember how it went, but there's only silence. And suddenly, Josh is frozen in place. His shoes melt into tar. He imagines some burned monster in a striped sweater coming through the mirror and stabbing his eyes. There is no monster. There is the faint outline of Tyler, arms raised in perfect swinging posture. And then, there is Tyler, his arms moving, the aluminum baseball bat connecting with the back of Josh's left knee.

Josh clings to the sink, falling, his legs unable to support his weight. He's gasping, wincing.

Tyler swings again, this time over his head, and the bat smacks Josh's shoulder, nearly missing his skull. Josh falls completely onto the tile floor this time, his bag an uncomfortable cushion as he lies on top of it. His leg hurts, his arm hurts—broken, maybe; no, a sprain, possible dislocation. He's going to die.

Tyler raises the bat again. Josh's eyes widen. He's going to die.

The bat comes down—and holy shit, he's actually going to die.

It smacks the ground next to Josh's ear, the sound echoing and becoming an earworm. It goes on and on and on, and on some more. Tyler is standing over him, the bat's top still touching the floor. The bat is dented, no doubt from this session and the session previous. Tyler is angry, shoulders heaving, fucking tears in his eyes. He fumbles for the light switch, blinding them both for a moment. Yeah, he's crying—face red, blotchy, weeping more like. "Why are you here?" he says, fingers tight around the bat's handle. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

It hurts to raise a hand, but he manages. Josh shows empty palms and shakes his head.

"Fuck you," Tyler hisses. "I can kill you, if I wanted to." He points the bat right at Josh's face. It touches the tip of his nose. Josh is so scared. "Why are you here, if you aren't going to kill me?"

Josh's eyes go to the medicine cabinet. Tyler whips his head around, pries open the door, and sees the bottles, the vials, and even the tweezers back in their rightful place. Tyler stops shaking. He's still, stiller than Josh has ever seen him before. "Why?" Tyler asks quietly. His grip loosens on the baseball bat. His voice is soft, confusion devouring him whole. "I don't understand. I… I…" Tyler grabs for a bottle, turns it over in a hand. He drops it in the sink, then reaches for a vial of testosterone. Millennia passes. Tyler stares at that vial like he's a parent finding their lost child. Or a child finding their dog. Tears roll down his cheeks, silent things that drip onto the countertop. He sniffs and carefully puts back the vial. "So, you… This isn't like… some kind of hate crime? You didn't target me?"

Josh frowns. Hate crime—what the fuck? He quickly shakes his head.

Tyler lowers the bat to the ground. "Can you stand?"

Josh tries. It hurts, and he needs to sort of put all his weight on one leg, and he does more wobbling than he cares for, but yes, he can stand. He avoids Tyler's eyes. He doesn't want to get caught. He doesn't even know—

Tyler's hand is already at the top of his head, fingers curled around the bunch of fabric at the top, and in one swift motion, he's pulling the mask off Josh's head. Josh immediately covers his face with his hands, wanting to scream from the pain in his shoulder. He's quiet, has to be quiet. Dear God, Josh actually starts praying on the spot. Dear God, please let Tyler know more than one pink-haired guy.

But Tyler doesn't. And God hates Josh. "Josh?" Tyler blinks, hand dropping, the black mask still in his grasp. "What are you—I don't—Josh, fuck, don't tell you—oh—holy— _crap_." Tyler covers his face, too, dropping the mask to the floor. He's shaking again, his head going back and forth, muttering under his breath. Josh is going to explode. He moves past Tyler, limping to the front door, but—hello—Josh is limping, and Tyler can walk, so he grabs Josh's arm and holds him back. Unfortunately, it's the arm Josh is pretty sure is dislocated, so he groans and shuts his eyes and goes down on the floor in a heap of pathetic and ashamed. His arm twists, and it hurts, shit, does it fucking hurt, and Josh thinks this might be how he goes. He shuts his eyes.

*

When he opens his eyes, he's in Tyler's bed, his arm and leg propped by pillows. Tyler is sitting beside him, flipping through a book, looking far better than he has in weeks. There's sunlight in the room. Josh thinks he _might_ be dead. Or dreaming. It makes sense. Tyler turns to him and pinches his nipple, finding it successfully on the first grope, and gives it a malicious twist.

Okay, not dreaming.

Josh whimpers, says, "Ow, ow, ow," and Tyler lets go. "What the hell?"

Tyler goes back to his book. "I fixed your shoulder. Didn't realize I did _that_ _much_ damage to it. Also wrapped a brace around your knee. Gonna be limping for a while, Josh." He shakes his head, shoulders tense, like he wants to say something else. He taps the pad of his finger against a page's edge, dancing on the verge of a paper cut. "We can… talk later about what happened last night."

"Why not now?"

Tyler throws the book off to the side. It hits the wall. "We can talk now."

Josh says, "I don't hate you, Tyler."

Tyler looks ahead.

Josh continues, "And, like, I know what I do is bad, but it's not _bad bad_ , y'know what I mean?"

Tyler doesn't move.

Josh frowns a little. "I didn't know this was your house, Ty. You gotta believe me. My friend told me to nail this street, so I did, and it was only until you came down those stairs I realized it was your place."

Tyler does a slow nod. He crosses his arms over his chest.

"I don't care about… the pills. I don't care about anything like that." Josh struggles to sit up. He slumps backward, the headboard propping him. "I'm messed up, too. I admire you for getting help. You're good. I thought… I felt bad for taking them and seeing how… broken you became. I didn't think you would have caught me… again."

Tyler chews on the inside of his cheek.

Josh watches him. His eyes are welling up with tears. He's eating the side of his cheek, trying to stop the inevitable. "Ty—Tyler. I… don't care. I like _people_. I don't care."

The inevitable happens. It releases in waves. Tyler hides his face first in his hands, then in Josh's lap. Josh strokes Tyker's hair with his good hand and listens to Tyler cry in relief, in joy, experiencing every positive emotion at once. And Josh cries with him. Josh needs a good cry.

*

Josh's shoulder is fine after a few days. His knee, however, requires more healing. He wears the brace for days, then a week, then another week. And every single Goddamn day, Tyler sits in that diner and smirks and eats his grilled cheese and slurps his milkshake.

*

It's strange how Tyler is… so unaffected by Josh's… career. While they're on the couch one evening, Josh brings it up. "So, do you just not care I steal for a living?"

Tyler is curled into his side, almost sitting in his lap. He doesn't look at him, just shakes his head and chews on his thumb. "A little, but I've always been morally gray."

Josh slowly nods.

"Besides… you gotta do what you gotta do to survive."

*

Once his knee is fully healed, Josh suggests taking Tyler with them. It's Saturday, Josh has an extra ski mask in his bag, and his friend has their van ready out front. Josh stands on Tyler's doorstep, smiling maybe a tad too much, but dammit, he's eager. "Do you want to come with us? There's this rich bastard who went to visit his mistress this weekend. We figured out his security code and everything."

There's hesitation—naturally. But it isn't enough for Josh to take back the offer. Tyler is staring at him, and he isn't scared, not even disgusted; he's fucking _enlightened_. He's glowing, bursting at the seams. "Yeah!"

Tyler is great at it. He knows how to pick locks, and is able to break into the safe in the study, under the desk. Wads of cash greet them, wrapped in those paper bands. Tyler's fingers curl. "Do we take it all?"

"Nah. Take, like… five. That's enough to not be noticeable, but it'll still drive him crazy if he counts it and doesn't remember if it's the correct amount or not."

Tyler looks as if he has a religious revelation. "Josh, I love you."

"I love you, too, sweet thing. Watch your head."

*

That night, when they return, Josh takes Tyler to bed.

Tyler is nervous. He's stretched out on his back, his chest rising and falling at a steady rate. Josh's fingers ghost along scars, tattoos, and Tyler swallows and closes his eyes. "Tell me I'm not disgusting. Tell me I'm worth it. Tell me I'm normal."

Josh lowers himself, kissing Tyler's hip. "You're not disgusting." He presses his nose to Tyler's pubic mound, soft with dark curls. "You're worth it." He drags his tongue down, licking at labia, clutching the curve of Tyler's ass with coaxing hands. "You're normal." He sucks on Tyler's clit, delicate, humming.

It doesn't take much.

Tyler wails, back arching, toes curling. He's gasping for air, wanting more, wanting everything. He loses himself with Josh. There's no more fright. Nerves do creep up. He's anxious when Josh wants to do more. "I've never…" He's panting, his skin pink and shiny. "I haven't even fingered myself. I've always been scared to do it." Frustrated, Tyler shakes his head. "It's stupid."

"It's not." Josh lies next to Tyler, his hand dropping between their bodies, between Tyler's legs. "You're dripping, Ty." Tyler blushes. Josh kisses him, stroking his clit, rubbing slow circles, drawing out a slow moan from Tyler's voice box. He trembles lightly, still weak from his orgasm. Josh bites Tyler's throat. "I'm gonna go really slow, okay? It's gonna feel weird at first."

Tyler nods. Josh slides in his middle finger, first just the tip, then all the way to his knuckle. Beside him, Tyler's brow is knitted, his lips pressed together. His hands on Josh's shoulders are strong, holding on for dear life. "It doesn't hurt," Tyler whispers.

"It's not supposed to hurt," Josh whispers right back, moving his wrist, working in a second finger when Tyler is comfortable. His mouth connects to Tyler's neck again, this time sucking, kissing. Small welts appear—strawberries. "You don't have to take my dick tonight."

"I want to," Tyler pleads. It's so desperate. Josh could get off on that alone. "I want you so bad, Josh."

Josh gives himself to Tyler. They're both desperate, rocking, scratching. Tyler ends up on top, grinding down on Josh, his hips rolling, twitching. Josh sighs. "Yeah, you're good at this."

"Lots of practice," Tyler says, leaning forward to kiss Josh's forehead, "with my pillow."

After Josh comes, Tyler crawls up Josh and promptly sits on his face. He takes hold of Josh's hair and begins grinding again. Tyler isn't in control for long. Josh recovers quickly and touches Tyler's waist, keeping Tyler in place as he pulls out another orgasm.

Tyler kisses Josh, sloppy, messy. He tastes himself on Josh's tongue, and it's hot, so hot. "Finger me again," Tyler says, and Josh laughs, but does as he's told. Tyler can go all night.

*

In the morning, still naked from the night before, Tyler prepares his testosterone shot, handing it to Josh. "I trust you," he says, "so much."

They eat sugary cereal for breakfast and watch cartoons.

*

It's dark out, with stars in the sky, and Tyler is in the last booth, legs swinging, waiting on his grilled cheese and milkshake. Josh sets it in front of him, then sits across from him, his pen behind his ear, his notepad kept in the pocket of his apron. "Strawberry again?" Tyler grabs his milkshake, slurping loudly.

"Had a craving," Josh says.

Tyler passes over half of his sandwich, Josh taking it after some prodding from shoes and playful eyes. "Doing anything this weekend?" Tyler asks, swinging his legs and kicking Josh every time.

Josh thinks for a moment, chewing on the grilled cheese. Tyler gave him the burnt half. Ass. "Don't know yet. Haven't heard anything. Did you want to do something?"

Tyler points at Josh's pen. Josh gets out his notepad, too. Fast, probably resulting in chicken scratch, Tyler scribbles six words that cause Josh to tuck the paper in a back pocket in a hurry. "What is it with my fingers that makes you like this?" Josh smiles. "We don't have to wait for the weekend to do that, though, yeah? You know that, right?"

Tyler shifts in his seat, pulling a leg to his chest. "Can't get enough of you." He slurps at his milkshake again. "You're such a bad influence."


End file.
